The Forest (40 page)

And suddenly Jonathan understood that he had hurt his father. And he was sorry for him. But he did not know what to do.

Then Henry Totton, overcome with the uselessness,
the utter hopelessness of achieving love between himself and his son, shrugged his shoulders in despair and exclaimed: ‘Do what you like, Jonathan. Sail with whom you wish.’

And then there was a struggle inside the boy, between his love and his desire. He knew he should say he would not go, or at least offer to sail in the other ship. This was the only way to tell his father he loved him; although he was not sure, even then, that the cold merchant would believe it. But his desire was to go with Willie and the carefree mariner, and to sail the sea in their little craft with its secret speed. And as he was only ten, desire won. ‘Oh, thank you, Father,’ he said and kissed him, and ran out to tell Willie.

Willie appeared the next morning. ‘My dad says you can come,’ he reported gleefully. Henry Totton was out, so he did not hear these good tidings.

There had been a brief April shower, but now the sun was shining. The news was far too exciting to contemplate indoors, so it was not long before the two boys set off together to find amusement. Their first plan was to walk a couple of miles northwards and play in the woods at Boldre; but they had not gone a mile when, as the lane dipped down a gentle incline, their attention was caught by something on the lip of higher ground just ahead.

‘Let’s go into the rings,’ said Jonathan.

The place that had attracted them was a curious feature of the Lymington landscape; it was a small earthwork inclosure set on a low knoll from which it overlooked the nearby river. Buckland Rings it was known as – although its low, grassy walls formed a rectangle rather than a circle. Dating from Celtic times, before the Romans came, it might have been a fort to guard the river, or a cattle pen, or both; but while the borough of Lymington might well contain descendants of the folk who built it, even the memory of this earlier settlement had probably been forgotten over a
thousand years before. Animals grazed on the sweet grass within and children played on its banks.

It was a good place to play. The earlier rain had made the grassy banks slippery and Jonathan had just defended the fortress from assault by Willie for the third time when they saw a handsome figure riding down the lane who, when he caught sight of them, gave a cheerful wave, dismounted and strode towards them.

‘So,’ he said genially, ‘today you battle by land and soon your fathers will battle by sea.’

Richard Albion was a very pleasant gentleman. His ancestors had been called Alban, but somehow, over the last two centuries, like some forest stream that gradually alters its course, the pronunciation of the name had shifted from Alban to the more comfortable Albion within whose banks, so to speak, it had been flowing very easily for several generations. As foresters, they had maintained a position among the gentry of the area and married accordingly. Albion’s own wife was one of the Button family who held estates near Lymington. In late middle-age now, with his grey hair and bright-blue eyes, Richard Albion bore a striking resemblance to his ancestor Cola the Huntsman of four centuries before. A naturally generous man, he would often stop to give some child a farthing; he was familiar with most of the inhabitants of Lymington by sight; and so he knew at once who the two boys playing on Buckland Rings must be. He chatted to them very amiably, therefore, and discussed the coming race.

‘Will you watch it, Sir?’ asked Jonathan.

‘Indeed I shall. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Why, the whole area will be there, I should think. As a matter of fact,’ he added, ‘I was just in Lymington, trying to place a bet on the race myself. But I couldn’t find any takers.’ He laughed. ‘The whole town’s so deep in already that nobody dares bet any more. See what your father’s done to the place, Jonathan Totton!’

‘Which way were you betting, Sir?’ asked Willie.

‘Well,’ the gentleman answered him honestly, ‘I’m afraid I was betting on the Southampton ship, not because I have any idea who will win, but because I like to be on the same side as Henry Totton.’

‘And’ – Jonathan was not sure if it was proper to ask, but Albion was not a man to take offence – ‘how much would you bet, Sir?’

‘Five pounds, I offered,’ Albion replied with a chuckle. ‘And no one would take my money!’ He grinned at them. ‘Either of you interested?’

Jonathan shook his head and Willie answered seriously: ‘My dad told me never to bet. He says only fools bet.’

‘Quite right,’ cried Albion, in high good humour. ‘And mind you do what he tells you.’ And he got on his horse and rode away.

‘Five pounds!’ said Jonathan to Willie. ‘That’s a lot to lose.’

Then they resumed their play.

Although Alan Seagull had not yet forgiven his son for his stupidity in telling the Totton boy his secret, he was in a tolerably good mood when he caught sight of Willie that afternoon. He had just counted up all the money he had been promised and, even if he lost the race, he would be paid more for this run then he had made in the last half-year. If he won, then with Burrard’s money he’d do better still. Student of human nature though he was, the mariner confessed himself astonished by the whole business. But he wasn’t expecting any more surprises, when Willie came up to him and enquired: ‘You know Richard Albion, Dad?’

‘Yes, son. I do.’

‘We met him at Buckland Rings today. He wants to bet on the race. Against you. But he can’t find no takers. All the Lymington money’s already been bet.’

‘Oh.’ Alan shrugged.

‘Guess how much he was going to bet, Dad.’

‘I don’t know, son. Tell me.’

‘Five pounds.’

Five pounds. Another five-pound bet! Seagull shook his head in wonderment. Someone else was actually prepared to wager that amount of money that he would lose. Nothing to Albion, perhaps. A small fortune to him. For a long time after his son had run inside the mariner sat staring out at the water, thinking.

Darkness had just fallen when Jonathan heard his father coming along the gallery passage.

Until the last few days of her life, when she could not move, his mother had always come to kiss Jonathan goodnight. Sometimes she would stay a while and tell him a story. Always, just before going, she would say a little prayer. She had only been dead a few days when Jonathan had asked his father: ‘Are you going to come to say goodnight to me?’

‘Why, Jonathan?’ Totton had asked. ‘You are not afraid of the dark, are you?’

‘No, Father.’ He had paused uncertainly. ‘Mother used to.’

Since then, Totton had come to say goodnight to his son most evenings. On his way up the stairs the merchant would try to think of something to say. Perhaps he might ask the boy what he had learned that day; or mention something of interest that had happened in the town. He would enter the room and stand quietly by the door looking down to where his son lay on his little bed.

And if Totton could think of nothing to say, Jonathan would just lie still for a moment and then murmur: ‘Thank you for coming to see me, Father. Goodnight.’

This evening, however, it was Jonathan who had been preparing something to say. He had been thinking about it all afternoon. So when his father’s quiet shadow appeared in
the doorway and looked towards him without speaking, it was he who broke the silence. ‘Father.’

‘Yes, Jonathan.’

‘I don’t have to race with Seagull. I could go in your boat, if you prefer.’

His father did not reply for a little while. ‘It is not a question of what I prefer, Jonathan,’ Totton said at last. ‘You have made your choice.’

‘But I could change, Father.’

‘Really? I don’t think so.’ There was just a hint of coldness in the voice. ‘Besides, you have already promised your friend to go with him.’

The boy understood. He perceived that he had hurt his father, that now his father was hitting back with this quiet rejection. He was so sorry, now, that he had wounded him, and afraid, too, of losing his love; for his father was all he had. If only he did not make it so difficult.

‘He would understand, Father. I’d rather go in your boat.’

Not true, thought the merchant, but aloud he said: ‘You gave your word, Jonathan. You must keep it.’

And now came the other matter that had been on the boy’s mind. ‘Father, you remember at the salterns you told me that if I knew a secret I promised not to tell, that I must keep my promise?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well … If I tell you something and ask you to keep it a secret, but I don’t exactly tell you everything, because if I did, that would be giving away the other secret … Would that be all right?’

‘You want to tell me something?’

‘Yes.’

‘A secret?’

‘Between us, Father. Because you’re my father,’ he added hopefully.

‘I see. Very well.’

‘Well …’ Jonathan paused. ‘Father, I think you’re going to lose this race.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘But you are sure of it?’

‘Pretty sure.’

‘There is nothing further you wish to say, Jonathan?’

‘No, Father.’

Totton was silent for a little while. Then his shadow began to recede and the door slowly closed.

‘Goodnight, Father,’ said Jonathan. But there was no reply.

The morning of the race was overcast. During the night the wind had turned and was now coming down from the north; but it seemed to Alan Seagull that it might yet change again. His canny eyes glanced out at the waters of the estuary. He wasn’t sure he liked the weather. One thing was certain: they would have a fast crossing to the island.

And after that? His eyes scanned the crowded quay. He was looking for someone.

Yesterday had been strange indeed. He had made bargains before, but never one so unexpected. Surprising though the business was, many things had been resolved.

One of these was the fate of young Jonathan.

The scene at the quay was lively. The whole of Lymington had gathered there. The two boats, moored by the waterside, were clearly contrasted. The Southampton vessel was not a full-size merchant ship but the more modest short sea-trader known as a hoy. Its size was forty tuns – which meant that in theory it could carry forty of the huge, two-hundred-and-fifty-gallon casks of wine that were then in use for the big shipments from the Continent. Broad, clinker-built of oak, with only a single mast and a large, square sail, the hoy looked primitive when compared with the great three-masted ships, six times its size, which
the English merchants usually imported from the shipbuilders of the Continent. But it served its purpose well enough in coastal waters and could easily make the Channel crossing to Normandy. It carried a crew of twenty.

Seagull’s boat, although of similar construction, was only half its size. Besides the two boys, it had a hand-picked crew of ten, plus Seagull himself.

The cargo carried by each vessel was typical for the run across to the Isle of Wight: sacks of wool, fardels of finished cloth, casks of wine, some bales of silk. For extra ballast the Southampton boat also carried ten hundredweight of iron. Both boats had been inspected by the mayor and declared fully laden.

The terms of the race had been carefully worked out between the parties and it was the mayor who now called the two ship’s masters together on the quay and rehearsed them.

‘You cross to Yarmouth fully laden. You unload on to the quay there. You return unladen, but with the same crew. The first back is the winner.’ He looked at them both severely. Seagull he knew; the big, black-bearded master from Southampton he did not. ‘On my orders you will cast off and row out to midstream. When I wave the flag, you may hoist sail or row forward as you wish. But if you foul the other boat then or at any time during the race, you will be judged the loser. I will decide who is first back and my decision on all matters is final.’

The two-way crossings, laden and unladen, the unloading, the opportunity to use oar and sail and the changeability of the weather – all these had added enough uncertainty, the mayor had judged, to make the race worth watching; although personally he couldn’t see how the bigger boat could fail to win and had placed his own bet accordingly.

The Southampton man nodded, scowled at Seagull, but held out his hand nonetheless. Seagull took it briefly. But
his eyes were hardly on the other mariner. He was still scanning the crowd.

And now he saw who he was looking for. As he turned back to his boat, he called Willie over to him. ‘You see Richard Albion, son?’ He pointed to the gentleman. ‘Run quickly and ask him if he still wants to bet five pounds against me winning the race.’

Willie did as he was told and a minute later returned. ‘He said yes, Dad.’

‘Good.’ Seagull nodded to himself. ‘Now just you run back to him and tell him I’ll take his bet, if he cares to lay it with a working man.’

‘You, Dad? You’re betting?’

‘That’s right, son.’

‘Five pounds? Have you got five pounds, Dad?’ The boy gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t.’

‘But Dad, you never bet!’

‘Are you arguing with me, boy?’

‘No, Dad. But …’